secrets i have held in my heart
by piratesmiley
Summary: Although unspoken, it was made very clear that night that Tony had no intention of going to sleep. That meant Pepper had no intention of going to sleep either.


A/N: Cross-posted to AO3.

EDIT 11/13/13 11:00 - Edited to fix my stupid tense-related mistakes.

* * *

The first few weeks after he returned from captivity, things seemed to be normal.

Well, obviously that first week was insane; the emotional rush of having him back alive, plus all the adjustments to his new outlook and hardware, and then the battle with Stane. But the following weeks appeared to leave him room to settle back into normal life. He was on strict orders (orders issued by Pepper herself, although they held the gravity of some terrifyingly severe punishing entity) to lay low after his littleannouncement, so while Pepper frantically triaged the slaying of her inbox and voicemail, Tony was down in the workshop. Like nothing had changed.

But it didn't take her long to catch on.

(And really, he should have known it wouldn't.)

Tony never really slept much before, but she knew the signs of twenty-four hours hot, and fourty-eight, and seventy-two even. Usually after three days she threatened him in some way. But he must have been expecting her because his response was automatic.

"It's been three days, Tony. Why don't you take a little nap?"

"I'm fine, Pep," and he looked up at her, bloodshot eyes wide and deliberately open, and sad. He looked so meek, even in his own territory. And she knew something was really, really wrong.

(Immediately after that encounter, where she just left him there because she was too scared to say anything else, she told JARVIS to monitor his vitals, because there was no way being awake that long could be good for his blood pressure, which couldn't be good for his heart, or what was left of it. And she went home that night and sat on the couch with the TV playing something irrelevant and not remotely distracting, just so she didn't have to feel the silence enveloping her as she sat in her apartment, wide awake with terror, knowing she was in the wrong place but unable to make herself fix it.)

* * *

The next night, she had a plan.

She worked from the mansion that day, and she worked late. Late for her, anyway. He was even surprised when she came down the stairs.

"You're still here?"

"Did you want me to leave?" And she was honestly asking, because this would only work if some part of him was willing.

"No," he said, looking a little alarmed. "It's just late. I figured you left already."

"Do I ever leave without saying goodbye?"

He smiled a little at that. "No."

"I was actually thinking of sticking around tonight," she said, and it was the wrong words to say, veneered with false casualness, but she didn't have anything else.

"Loathe to leave, Miss Potts?"

"Oh, there's always something to do around here," she said.

And he just smiled a bit. (Another red flag: he should have said "you could always do me." Well, maybe not something quite so overt. But that was his usual cue for a sexual reference and instead the conversation was left alarmingly chaste.)

"I'll be upstairs," she said softly, and she caught a flicker of something akin to understanding in his eyes, before she turned and left.

She held her breath until she was out of his sight.

* * *

It took a few hours. She wasn't surprised. Tony was nothing if not an internal struggle (perfumed with swagger and charm, but still mostly struggle). She did her usual bit (pretending to do something else while really just fretting about him), imagining him talking himself out of coming up the stairs. But eventually he did.

She played her part right. She pretended not to notice him until he sat down right next to her, much closer than usual, thighs and arms lined up and fit together like puzzle pieces. She instantly forgot every aspect of the plan.

In one smooth motion, his cheek was pressed to her collarbone, his forehead to her neck, pressing his nose to her flesh. Inhaling. She wrapped her arms around him.

She reminded herself to breath as well.

She turned her body towards his, crisscrossing her legs and making her presence small on the couch, pressing one hand to his cheek to keep him rested there. There, a little less awkward, a little more comfortable. Now he was mostly laying against her, being cradled.

He almost released a few tears in relief. He hadn't wanted to startle her but he was so _starved_—

"There was someone with me," he started. His voice is empty, devoid of connotation. She instantly wonders if this is something she will ever be equipped to handle. But she doesn't say anything.

He told the whole story. Feeling copper-tinged sick and swallowed up in an unbreathable sea of muzziness, cold and dark. Feeling the gaping hole in his chest and utterly disbelieving it possible. The untenable wave of self-loathing. The disbelief. The despair.

The kinship with Yinsen. The intense focus that overtook him. The terror spurring him on. The rage.

The adrenaline. The fire. Watching a good man die.

And rage, and rage, and rage. And that the downpour of sorrow was only fizzling out that rage quite recently. It was all catching up to him now. Every time she had said that he couldn't keep living like this, about the girls or the drinking or the parties or whatever, she had been right, and part of him knew that, he said; but he had never, in his infinite capability, imagined something like this being the cause.

He tells her everything, the whole torturous story. He wasn't able to look her in the eye once, just kept himself pressed to her. She felt more than saw the tears, the brush of his eyelashes, sometimes the brush of his lips as he spoke. That was fine though, he wasn't really seeing the bit of carpet he was staring at, instead remembering things impossible for her to conceive. And he wasn't really speaking to her, just talking into the open room.

By the end of it he was trying as hard as he could not to sob, so she pressed a series of kisses to his temple to try and break him down. Let it out, let it out. He did. It felt like hours of crying, until he lulled himself into miserable but long overdue sleep. Her arms and legs ached, but not nearly as much as her head. Or her heart. But she refused to move. She would guard him, because it was the only thing she could do.

(She was sitting in the right house, on the right couch this time, but she was still terrified, and still unable to fix anything. She stayed wide awake all night.)

* * *

Tony woke up alone.

He found himself face down on his couch (not even the one in the workshop), sprawled comically and caked in sleep. He had no idea how long he was out or even how he got here (if he had a dollar for every time that had happened, well, he was already rich, but this would be unholy). It had to be early morning; it looked just barely light enough to be daytime. He tried to remember what happened: Pepper had come downstairs…he had gone up…

Oh, it was coming back to him now.

He expected to feel shame or embarrassment for unloading all of that on her. Instead he just felt…manageable. Not lighter – the weight on his shoulders wasn't just going to disappear. But he felt more contained. Less radioactive, no longer reeking of train wreck.

Still, he had just pulled her into a very delicate situation; she was about to play him like a chess piece, strategizing intensely to get them both out of the awkwardness he'd thrust upon them both. He felt a blaze of disappointment.

Slowly, he dragged himself upstairs for a shower.

* * *

Pepper made sure she was perfectly on time. Nothing had changed. Nothing was different about today.

(Something had definitely changed.)

She made sure she was balancing hot coffee in one hand and staring at the phone in her other one, for distraction.

(Something was different about today.)

It ended up being unnecessary, because Tony was no longer on the couch where she left him. She breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, it was delaying the inevitable, but the delay gave her instant relief. One more stolen second before she went back to pretending. Before she turned back into professionalism personified.

It felt wrong to drop herself back on the very same couch they had spent the night on, so she climbed the stairs to the bedroom-turned-office she claimed years ago but only sometimes used. She got settled in and tried to focus. There was so much to do – there was always so much to do. She wanted to let it consume her.

But, like always, the pull was too strong. She went to look for him.

* * *

He was tinkering. He needed something to distract his hands, as they continue twitching, even though his mind was curiously passive. He was thinking, and the thinking was deep, but it's a pool of water he was coasting in, rather than making ripples and splashes. His hands were fixing up a carburetor, and he tried not to let them start and still completely when he heard the tell-tale click-clack of her stilettos. The sound was hardwired into his senses, following a forceful path to domination.

He pretended not to notice.

She dropped off a cup of coffee by his elbow before rounding the desk, keeping her distance.

"Why aren't you dressed?" She sounded the perfect amount of pissed.

"As you can see, Potts, I am wearing clothes." He tried not to look at her, but it was too difficult. She seemed to be having no problem with that, however, Blackberry in hand and lots of papers to shuffle around.

"Dressed for lunch with the American ambassador to Argentina? I don't think so."

"Do I really have to do that?"

"I laid out a suit for you." It ached. He ached. How could she stand there and pretend it didn't happen? How was she even capable of that? He'd be impressed if he wasn't feeling so…shitty.

"Why are you always going through my closet? I can choose a suit," he said petulantly.

"You're also supposed to be able to put on a tie but somehow I always end up doing it."

"You look tired," he said suddenly, and she stilled instantly. He needed her. He wanted to be let into her space all the time, constant access. He'd never felt so safe and reassured outside of that long desperate moment last night. It was selfish, probably. And he was trying, ever since he got back, not to be, not to only think about himself. It was selfish, but he didn't know what else to do but want it. Every moment outside of her sphere of comfort was a moment wasted, and the ache of that unavailability came with breathing. It was sappy and weird and yes, still selfish, but he needed it now.

It's the only thing that eased his aches.

She turned away. "You look late. Again. Go get dressed." He waited until the echo of her footsteps dissipated before opening his eyes.

* * *

It had been a quiet day. But the night was too quiet.

He had decided earlier that he was going to try. By midnight, he's in bed, mouth still tanging from toothpaste, eyes tired. He's lying flat on his back, staring at the high ceiling, watching the dim beam of light from the arc shift infinitesimally as he breathed. It was no use. The allure of sleep was wasted on him. He did live a life of luxury, but he never considered sleep to be a luxury, just a requirement for human function that could be circumvented with a little Red Bull and some loud music.

And it was worse when there was something he didn't want to think about.

He sighed. This was a pretty good effort, for him anyway. He launched out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and lumbered downstairs.

He stopped mid-step when he realized she was sitting there.

This wasn't a very late night for her, really. But considering what happened last night, he was surprised she was here past nine. On sight, the pang of need chimed like clockwork. He gripped the bannister. No touching allowed.

"You should just move in, Potts," he said, purposefully loud. She jumped.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," she said, hand to chest.

"Sorry," he said, not meaning it. Tonight was not going to be like last night. He needed a clear head. He moved to the couch but sat on the opposite side as her. He stretched, then slumped. She was watching the news – or at least, she had the news on. She almost always did, for background noise. She could work just as well with an episode of something he actually cared about filling the void.

The air was thick; they were both thinking so much it was spilling out into the air supply and they couldn't breathe it back in. It was dangerous to stay so uncomfortable. This episode of Mythbusters was far too cheerful.

"Everything's going to be alright," he murmured suddenly, not sure where it was coming from exactly. It was a delayed conclusion, left unsaid from the night before. She had opened him up last night, relieved some of the pressure, unlocked his capability for reassurance. She did the exact kind of thing a superhero's girlfriend would – inspire him to be more. She always did.

They didn't look at each other. He didn't seek out her gaze as usual. Pepper had convinced herself that she was good at hiding things, but he could always see a note of something in her eyes, whether she wanted it there or not. But he let her have the privacy, this time. Their imbalance was too delicate to take that away from either of them.

Instead he let his hand fall open on the seat between them, waiting, high school style. But it was a real choice. She didn't have to take it. She could ignore it, like she'd ignored everything else today. She could let the world continue to turn.

But it felt wrong to.

She placed her hand over his. Feather-light and snow-cold. And he squeezed.

_Everything's going to be alright._


End file.
